


Found Family

by Anonymous



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Blood, Body Modification, Genital Piercing, M/M, Public Humiliation, Public Rape, spiritual ceremony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 10:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	Found Family

"Captain, there is a problem."

Captain Verer Orthema closed his gritty eyes. If he were given a silver coin every time he had heard these words here, out in the steppe... 

"We thought everything has been taken care of," he said. Fatigue washed over him in great, dizzying waves but he couldn't give himself over to it. Or to desperation. Not yet. "Everything has been negotiated and renegotiated at least twice. What, for Ulis' sake, can there be now?"

He wasn't even able to raise his voice anymore, which was for the better, as the poor lieutenant standing before him was not at fault. Drawing up the peace treaty had taken nearly one and half a years, the last month of which he had spent on edge, always ready to jump and stamp out skirmishes between the armies as the details unavoidably spread and either side felt they had been unjustly slighted by one condition or another. 

But today, unbelievable as it was, after long nights spent as a leading negotiator representing His Serenity and even longer days as a captain among his soldiers, the treaty was finalized. Its full text was scribed on new parchments, ready to be sent back to the Court for a last read-through before the official signing at new moon, under the stars, four weeks and two days away. The bone-deep exhaustion and the promise of four weeks and one day of empty waiting tempted Orthema to just lie down onto his cot in the corner and and simply stop breathing. 

"Mer Voron is here, will you see him?" The lieutenant was clearly anxious. Orthema opened his eyes and stood. 

"Do we have any other choice?" 

"Captain..." The miserable lieutenant couldn't finish; Orthema walked past him, out to the daylight. 

It was not fully dark yet and the coolness of the evening was something to enjoy after the air in the tent -- it even cleared his head a little. In there, it was somehow always stuffy, even on midwinter nights when it was also cold as an ice pit. But this was a gift and a show of benevolence of the Nazh, one of their best tents for him to sleep in alone, while the others, the secretaries, messengers, cooks, cleaners, priests, and of course soldiers -- the whole Ethuverazheise camp -- had to put up with bigger and much less comfortable, military-style tents. It was made out of thick tapestries and colorful carpets, packed full of too-soft sitting cushions hung with silken tassels, and hammered coins of copper and silver, evidently very costly, so Orthema endured it. In time, he even grew to find it comforting. 

In front of the door flap stood Mer Morhathren Voron, the leader of the Nazh delegation. He was not a soldier but the head of the most influential clan of the most influential tribe; his actual standing must have been closer to, or probably even higher than a dach'osmer but he spoke flawless Ethuverazhin and introduced himself so. He was an intelligent man, inclined for peace and not lacking humor, someone whom Mer Verer Orthema hoped to someday be able to call a friend. 

For now, they were still at war and Voron must have brought bad news.  "Good evening, Captain. We are sorry for having disturbed your well-deserved respite."

"Good evening, Mer Voron. Will you come in, please? Shall we ask for tea?" Some time ago Orthema had thought that diplomacy was not for him. His opinion had not changed since but he had learned how to use it nevertheless, as one might learn with practice how to use a new weapon. 

"Oh, no, thank you. We prefer it under the stars, if you do not mind." He took a deep breath. "We shall keep it short. You see, there's something we had not thought of when we agreed on the ceremony you would perform tomorrow night."

"What would that be?" Orthema suddenly didn't feel tired at all. Several Nazh families had argued earlier that the treaty would not be binding without approval of their ancestors, the spirits of those who still lay under the Anmur'theileian. They wanted Edrehasivar himself to go and appease them personally; finally, they accepted Orthema as a surrogate. At new moon, he would climb the rock and spend the night up there, alone, presumably asking for forgiveness and approval. If he came down alive and unharmed in the morning, the treaty could be signed a month later. 

"It's a formality, really." Voron's face clearly showed how sorry he was for what he was about to say. "You see, one of the holy men pointed out just now that you going up the Carrion-Bones would only mean further desecration of the place as you are not a Nazh."

"Neither is Edrehasivar," Orthema noted. 

"That's true. Therefore, you must become one."

"Is that really as simple as you make it sound?" 

"Well, there are two ways. One is out of the question for you, as you were born... other. However, there is still marriage."

"We are already married." Orthema shook his head. "And so is Edrehasivar. Besides..."

"We know that. Please, just hear us out. It's not an actual marriage. It doesn't have any legal force under the laws of the Ethuveraz. Actually, it has none even under ours. It's nothing but a spiritual ceremony. You will marry not a man, but our whole people personified by him. After that, you'll be regarded as a Nazh, and will be allowed to seek the ancestors at the Carrion-Bones."

"Is that so? And is there no other way to proceed without that?"

"There is," Voron admitted. "Nobody would stop us from proceeding as if we were not aware of this... obstacle. However, there is the very real possibility that you climbing the rock and Edrehasivar signing the treaty without spiritual approval would mean sowing the seeds of a future war... even harder to stop than this one." 

Orthema rubbed at his temples; he and Voron have given up any pretense of cold self-control in each other's company long ago. 

"Yes. We see that. Of course we do. Are you entirely sure it will not hold any legal effect on us?"

"We swear on our family name, Captain. Actually... this is high honor offered, you know."

Orthema heaved a deep, miserable sigh. This kind of oath was very rare, only one step lower than swearing on someone's ancestors, which was simply not done. Voron's tone also suggested that if he chose, he could rightfully be very much offended by Orthema not recognizing the honor offered to him.

"Ah. So. Then we will do it. How and when?"

"Well, it should be done at new moon, too... but the holy one who pointed out the whole problem said he would do it tomorrow, in daylight, so that you could go to Carrion-Bones at night and not lose a month. He has a very high opinion of you, so he said, and hence was willing to make an exception. He also said that you might recall having met with him earlier. He is the blessed son of the Dein clan. Nazhcreis Dein."   
  
**   
  
By the next afternoon the big ceremonial tent was erected in the field, close enough for everyone to see but far enough that the din of the camp life didn't filter inside. As Orthema learned, its parts were always kept by the tribe heads to ensure that no important decisions were met without all of them present. After the main pole -- a beam rather, made of two pieces, each the height of a man, kept by Mer Voron himself -- was assembled and put in place, it stood high in white and gold splendour under the blazing steppe sun, impossible to even look at. Its only flaw was deliberate: they had left out the thick, smooth carpets so that the full beauty would only show itself at the signing. It sang of riches, so different from the hardships of everyday life, and the honor of a people who bend under the steppe winds but never break. 

Voron had told Orthema that all thirty-two tribe heads would be there with them as witnesses, and recited a rough summary of the ritual itself. It was rough because rare as such ceremonies were, he himself had never witnessed one: the last happened with a Celvazheise woman when he was only a youth and not allowed even close, so all he had were the stories. He looked proud for Orthema's sake, and Orthema, seeing the tent and the thirty-one solemn men in clothes that must have been worth years in hard-earned steppe crops, swallowed his doubts about Nazhcreis Dein and tried to put himself into a honored and dignified mindset befitting the occasion. 

He was the last to enter, following Voron himself. Following his advice, too, he counted a hundred and twenty heartbeats, then thirty more to set the pace off. After the sharp sunlight, inside he saw only eye-watering darkness; indistinct afterimages of nothing swarmed before his eyes, and even though he knew it would only last until his pupils dilated again, he felt exposed. Vulnerable. 

"Come forward, Verer Orthema, captain of the Untheileneise Guard." The voice was unmistakable, and so was the accent, the slight hitch in the pronunciation of the word “Untheileneise.” It belonged to a shape standing in the middle of the tent. 

Orthema blinked and saw Nazchreis Dein himself, tall and proud, skin and hair whiter than the whitest elf ever born, his one eye fiercely red, the other a mass of silvery scars. He was clad only in a thin robe embroidered silver on black, stars on the night sky. About his neck he wore a necklace of silver with a small nazhcreis skull carved out of bone as a pendant and four real claws stabbed through each ear; into his hair were woven the teeth of the steppe lion on a thin silver chain. "Come," he repeated and extended a hand towards Orthema. 

Orthema went. A side glance revealed that the tribe heads standing witness along the tent walls had brought no weapons -- or kept them concealed. Still, he felt himself naked in front of them in his ceremonial robe, lent by Voron's family; it was the same black as Dein's but without embroidery. Voron had told him that he would be entitled to a new one at the end of the ceremony, in all the colors of the tribes, to show his new status, but the needlework would take a while, as they were not really prepared for this; could Orthema forgive their lapse? 

He did: now, standing in front of Nazchreis Dein he found he cared not for ceremonial robes at all. 

Though his vision had mostly returned to normal, he was still unable to read Dein's blood-red eye, just as before. For a moment it occurred to him that it was not a ritual marriage but a ritual slaughter that was going to take place that afternoon; indeed this was why they had left the costly carpets in storage yet, so that his blood would not soil them. A trap, a revenge, spitting in the face of Edrehasivar: after all, no one could ever catch a Nazh tribe head once the camp dispersed, and that would take about two hours, great tent included.

He dismissed the thought firmly. His own soldiers were ready, their numbers great enough to give chase and possibly win. Actually, it was the tribe heads who had put themselves in great danger, gathering like this. If somebody were to shoot a burning arrow or two into the tent... 

With a flick of his ear he brought his mind back to Dein. The steppe witch was waiting patiently; as Orthema looked into his eye he smiled and nodded. 

"So we begin now. I'll say three questions, you answer one word each." His Ethuverazhin was broken but Orthema knew this, too, was a honor, to be addressed in his own tongue. He nodded. "One word only," Dein went on. "Then stay silent. Entirely silent. Draw not a loud breath until the spirits signal acceptance. Understand?" 

Orthema, not sure if this was the first question already, nodded. 

"Good." Dein was not smiling anymore. "You understand what will happen here and now? That you will be married to all of the Nazh, will become one of us and will be so able to seek the ancestors' blessing at Carrion-Bones? Say out loud."

"Yes." 

"Good. You do this as your own free will and choice, not forced or pressed into the decision? Say out loud."

_ Not entirely,  _ Orthema thought.  _ But as free as it ever gets for me in the service of the Ethuveraz.  _

He swallowed. "Yes."

"Good. Your choice is still free, until the very end. You can break silence any time if you want to stop. Then the ritual will stop and you will remain unwedded. But no more such opportunity for the future. Yourself or anyone else Ethuverazheise. Understood? Say out loud."

"Yes." That part, at least, was clear. 

"Good. Then silence, now."

Orthema drew a deep, half-involuntary breath, as if about to be submerged in water for an unknown length of time; he thought he saw a hint of a smirk on Dein's lips but the witch closed his eyes, turned his face up towards the sky and began chanting. The language must have been Nazh, as Orthema recognized some words, but probably an old dialect, not used anymore. It went on through long verses and the tribe heads repeated the last lines solemnly; an invocation or a prayer, Orthema thought. Somehow, it calmed him a little.

After the chant, Dein continued to speak in the same voice, face still upturned, but in the everyday Nazh language now, so Orthema understood almost everything. Dein recited the circumstances for the ancestors in length, asked their approval, and -- as no lightning struck the tent, signaling the opposite -- thanked them, then turned back to the real world. From under the main pole, he took a small dagger and lifted it high so that everyone could see. 

"Your hand." He turned to Orthema, who blinked, surprised, but obediently extended his hand. Voron had told him that the ritual consisted of three parts: invocation, acceptance, blessings. Were they already at the second part? This was nothing compared to the lengthy and boring Court occasions he had sat through entirely too many times. 

The blade was viciously sharp; he didn't even feel the cut on his thumb at first. Blood beaded on his skin. 

"Morhathren Voron," Dein called out, his voice stronger now, commanding. "Do you accept Verer Orthema into your clan and tribe, and take responsibility for his deeds from now on?" 

"I do," Voron replied and stepped forward, extending his hand in the same motion. Dein cut him, too, then pressed their fingers together, so their blood mixed. Finally, Voron smeared a thumbprint as a seal of acceptance onto Orthema's forehead. 

_ Now, repeat thirty-one times.  _

By the time the head of the least significant tribe spoke his acceptance, eight of Orthema's fingers were throbbing from the cuts necessary to keep his blood flowing and he felt there was a painting of red taking shape on is forehead -- but it was really only symbolic.  _ Let's hear the blessings and move on… _

There was a momentary pause; something flew through the steppe witch's eye. Orthema's muscles tensed with the same instinct that had saved his life many times in the fields.  _ Am I going to die now? And if so, will the war smolder and burn forever now, because of a witch taking personal revenge on a soldier?  _

Dein drew a circle in the air with the dagger still held in his left hand. "Turn around."

_ What...  _ He had already opened his mouth, unthinking, but swallowed the word just in time. This was something unplanned. He didn't move. 

"I said turn around." 

Against his better judgment, Orthema turned, facing the main beam. When he felt Dein's hand between his shoulder blades, his hand twitched towards where his sword should have been. 

_ What...  _

"What are you doing?" Voron's voice held indignation, anger... and fear? 

"Silence, brother," Dein's hand moved lower on Orthema's back as he turned to Voron. "Silence, all of you, or I'll declare the ritual a failure. Contrary to yours, my acceptance isn't earned yet."  

His fingers slid onto Orthema's neck, pressing his bloodied forehead into the beam. "Besides, isn't this a  _ marriage? _ "

The cool blade cut through the robe along his spine with barely a whisper. Orthema had a moment to feel utterly exposed before Dein covered him -- with his own body. He had pulled his robe up and as his hips thrust forward, Orthema felt his unmistakable hardness.

_ No,  _ cried a voice in Orthema's mind, and there was a moment when he already felt himself moving, slamming his elbows and a foot backwards into Dein's soft places, then turning and... 

_ No,  _ cried a voice in his mind, and he stood, unmoving.

"Hush, or I will end the ceremony," Dein whispered into his ear, an obscene parody of intimacy. "It's not over until I say it's over, understood? Want your peace? Want to be a good little Nazh for it? Then grab the pole and take what it takes."

He let go of Orthema's neck, only to shove him against the beam once more. Orthema's hands flew up and he grabbed the pole, if only to avoid breaking his nose on it; he thought he saw Voron's shocked and mortified face for a moment but would not turn to have a second look.

A cork of a small bottle popped; a sharp, yet musky scent filled Orthema's nostrils.  _ If I could hunt thee down and make a tapestry out of thy hide, I swear I would. _

He was no prude; he was aware of marnei and knew that several of his own men who called themselves brothers in public were more likely lovers. He never had any qualms about that -- all the more reason to fight, if you are defending your dearest. But he wasn't one of them. Not even curious. 

He knew nonetheless that he had no other choice than to  _ take what it takes  _ to appease, not the ancestors but Dein. His pride, or even his life had no value compared to the peace at stake. So many lives already lost, so much blood spilt -- if Dein said no, everything would go to waste. If the final price was to see him destroyed, he would allow it. He would even assist it. 

The knowledge and the intention, however, did not lessen his burning rage and shame. He closed his eyes; he couldn't possibly bear to see the tribe heads gloating over him. 

Or the pity in Voron's eyes. 

A rough finger parted his cheeks, smearing oil around his hole. It felt warm. Had Dein had it on his body, under the robe, all along? 

He braced himself for the intrusion but it didn't come. Instead, something slick and hard slid between his thighs. It must have been Dein's cock, except... except it scratched. 

His musches stiffened even more in surprise. Dein leaned close to his ear and whispered, his tone mockingly sensual. 

"Oh, so you feel it? I thought you would appreciate it. You know, all cats are endowed so, and I'm a nazhcreis, after all. Go on, touch it. I want you to be fully aware of what you are about to get." When Orthema didn't move. Dein hissed at him angrily. "Do as I said or you can kiss goodbye to your new family!" 

Orthema reached down and ran two fingers down the length of the cock forced between his thighs, eliciting an overplayed moan from Dein. It was quite thick, as much as he could judge, even if not very long, and there were small studs protruding from it everywhere. They felt like metal but it was hard to determine; as if Dein had a fistful of nails driven through his shaft from every direction.  _ But that's impossible. _

"You can stroke it all you want," Dein murmured into his ear. Orthema jerked his hand away as if from a fire. 

"Oh, well,' Dein said in a falsely disappointed tone. "If you are  _ that  _ eager."

With the fingers of one hand, he parted Orthema’s cheeks again, positioned himself and pushed inside, slowly enough that the muscles gave way; screaming, tearing way. 

Orthema did not scream. He thought he would be able to bear it -- only pain after all, hardly the first time he had been injured, seriously even, -- but he hadn’t counted on his body's betrayal. Suddenly, all his strength drained away, dizziness and nausea flooded him instead; his heart kicked at his ribs once, then slowed down to a crawling rhythm. The colors seeped out from the world around him, dull buzzing filled his ears, threatening to swallow everything. His knees buckled under him; the only thing that kept him upright was the cock that impaled him. 

He knew how the body, perceiving a potentially fatal injury, shuts down. This, and the knowledge that his injuries were nothing fatal, didn't help against the blackness lapping at the sides of his vision.  _ Gods-damn-it, thou wilt  _ not  _ faint! _

"Enjoying it so much?" Dein sneered in a low voice. "I thought so. Have more, then." 

He drew back just as slowly, and the grayness clouding Orthem's mind was dispersed in a crimson burst of pain as the metal studs, so small under his fingers, yet sharp like the cats' claws, tore at the sensitive skin and muscles of his hole again. Now he felt the underside of his sac burning, too, where Dein had pressed up earlier.  _ The oil. It was not just warm.  _

He concentrated on keeping his breathing level and silent, riding out the pain, the burn, the agony, using it to remain conscious, while the barbed organ shuttled in and out of his body, every movement tearing him wider and wider open. A drop of liquid ran down his right thigh, then another, then another. Orthema hung his head and gripped the beam with all his strength: it was cool, real, stable, it helped him remain on his feet while Dein raped him with hot, broken glass. 

Someone shouted something. Voron, perhaps?  _ Thou fool. _ Dein barked one word in response that Orthema didn't recognize and redoubled his efforts. 

It turned out that there was still place in his body for more pain: it spread like melted wax from his groin downwards to his thighs and legs, upwards to his guts, until his diaphragm spasmed and no more breaths would come. 

_ Not yet. Not yet, damn thee!  _

He forced his lungs to expand, his throat to let the air through in sobbing, wheezing gulps: strictly speaking he was breaking silence but he doubted any ancestral spirit would care at this point. Or any witness. Or even Dein. 

More and more blood dripped to the ground: the persistent darkness at the world's edges became deep red.  _ So they were preserving the carpets after all.  _

His consciousness must eventually have slipped for a moment or two: what he next knew was Dein forcing his cock into him even deeper, his thrusts short and erratic now.  _ Art done yet, thou bastard of a jackal?  _

He was: he pulled out slowly, letting Orthema feel each stud tearing at his flesh once more, then patted his flank affectionately. 

"Stand tall, proud soldier," he cooed. Orthema, for lack of anything else to think of, stood, still dizzy, shredded and burning, but very much conscious of the tribe heads again. 

He didn't want to look but had to open his eyes, had to face them. They were everywhere, unknown, foreign faces, witnesses of his disgrace. Most of them were clearly horrified, which told him what he already knew -- this was definitely not a usual part of the ritual. Some of them, though, smirked at him.  _ The story will spread. Ulis help me, you will make sure that in a year everyone know how you broke the Captain of the Untheileneise Guard. How you broke the pride of the Ethuveraz, after all.  _

_ And I will be grateful if it happens only within a year and not the the next month.  _

Dein smiled, too, satisfied. Like an afterthought, he reached down and smeared the blood on Orthema's thighs onto his thumb. "I drew your blood and now I draw mine," he continued in the same chanting manner as before, lifted the dagger again, and made a small incision on the same thumb. He waited for a bead of blood to appear, then pressed it to Orthema's forehead. "You have the ancestors' blessing, and mine besides. Now we are family." He bowed his head to Orthema. "Have a nice ride to the Carrion-Bones tonight, Captain."

 


End file.
